No rain this morning but the damage has been done. The toilets are not fit for human use. Fortunately, as a man the countryside has plenty of alternatives to offer me. I don't waste time shaving, I figure it's only a matter of time before beards become legitimately cool again and I don't want to miss Guitar Wolf.

I miss Guitar Wolf but following them is the spectacular Pealout (White Stage) who play largely piano-led rock and roll with the kind of energy that only the truly melodically bankrupt can muster. Also features a singing drummer (yes!) and a guy whose job it is to hit trash cans hard with a metal pipe (double yes!)

A wander past the Green Stage reveals ankle-deep mud and Back Drop Bomb who sound pretty cool but look awful. The Raveonettes (Red Marquee) surprise by virtue of everything sounding like it's by Buddy Holly except opener "Everyday" which actually is by Buddy Holly. Fortunately their grave-robbing spree also seems to have uncovered and reanimated the corpse of early Jesus And Mary Chain. I like.

Unspoken but ever-present throughout the festival is the spectre of war. It's there in the "anarchy" flags dotted around the festival grounds, it's there in the "v" signs and declarations of "peace and love" that many of the bands feel compelled to make. All of it, however, seems to lack conviction, no-one seems sure if music has a role in politics or vice versa and if it does where do they stand?

"F*** Bush and Blair!"

Asian Dub Foundation (Green Stage) know where they stand. An American guy sat behind me shouts something angry in response and storms off, his British friends discuss the appropriateness of expressing such an attitude in a festival environment. The thing is that ADF's manifesto is deeply embedded into their music and as British citizens from Asian families growing up in heavily Islamic communities in London they have every right to a voice of dissent at their government's (undemocratic on every level) decision to wage war. More of this later.

Next up though is the more easily palatable, festival-friendly indie balladry of Coldplay (Green Stage). Chris Martin is a friendly, appealing frontman and he spreads good vibes with ease. On the other hand his constant questions of "Are you ok?" just make me feel insecure and sometimes this schtick makes him seem too studiedly cute.

Technical difficulties and rain greet Primal Scream (Green Stage), competing with Death In Vegas for the award "Most Guitarists On Stage At One Time", as they rip through some of the fiercest, loudest and coolest music of the last hundred years. The audience hanging somewhere between Coldplay and Bjork seems a bit bewildered and becomes even more so as Bobby Gillespie reproaches them for their quietness in an incomprehensible mutter which sounds something like "yahhhlllfkkkkngkwyytfrajapaneseooorrjenshhh". The wildest reactions are saved for the material from 2000's "Exterminator" and 1992's "Screamadelica". Bassist Mani's old Stone Roses bandmate John Squire, standing stage left after his Red Marquee solo performance, gets a dedication in the form of "Movin' On Up" but is too shy to come on and milk the reaction. Soon enough however, love is back in the air with Bobby and Mani kissing each other right on the face.

The environment is totally wrong for tonight's headliner Bjork (Green Stage) who comes on thirty minutes late after an hour of abstract noises seemingly from an old BBC sound effects CD. I'm wet and in a bad mood and in one of the quiet bits I'm drawn away by the distant, Pied Piper-esque sound of passionate love being made to old fashioned guitars.

Somewhere along the pathway between stages the sound of Bjork's avant-garde warbling gives way to the primeval engine roar of Iggy Pop (White Stage) and it feels like a butterfly being crushed by an iron gauntlet. It's a good feeling. Iggy can't do "The Passenger" alone so he gets half the audience on stage to help him. He does an encore of "No Fun" and garage standard "Louie Louie" and you know no-one will ever write a song that good again. The girl in the blue coat is here and the raw sex in the air is catching. We leave together, thanks Iggy. -Ian Martin, Sep.26.03